Still Waters
by Laura W
Summary: Shortly after the events of Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home, our heroes encounter crises both professional and personal. In progress. More sections to come. Reviews greatly to be wished, since I am not sure this story is interesting to anyone but me!
1. Prologue

Still Waters

**Prologue**

The crowd of onlookers—civilian spectators, Starfleet officers, Federation Ambassadors, aliens of every size, shape and description—receded like an outgoing tide.

The buzz of excited chatter receded with them, leaving behind a sudden quiet stillness that suited the three remaining men in the council chamber. Two of the men, both tall and spare, at home in the silence, conversed quietly under the blue Federation banner.

The third man stood alone. A bewildered tangle of fatigue and surprise, grief and elation, overtook him and he leaned against the panel separating the spectator seats from the main floor. The days and weeks suddenly caught up with him, the improbable journey into Earth's past, the rescue of the whales, the disciplinary panel that had just concluded. And before that, the collapse of Genesis beneath his feet, the desperate journey to Vulcan, the heartbreaking—but not regretted—loss of the _Enterprise_.

The death of David. God, the death of David.

Jim Kirk scrubbed a hand wearily over his face. He would have to deal with that grief sooner or later. For now, he was tired, so tired... But also paradoxically suffused with anticipation at the possibilities ahead. He had entered this chamber fully expecting his career to be over before he left it. Instead, he would leave it with a future before him that he could never have imagined.

Looking across the empty chamber at the two figures opposite him, Jim realized that, for the first time in weeks, he felt...whole.

They were so similar, the men facing each other and chatting politely. Both straight and lean, both with an elegant carriage that bordered on regal. Both still wary and stiff in each other's presence, but slowly learning to bend.

There could be no doubt that the older man cared deeply for the younger one. Not anymore. Jim would never forget the depth of grief in Sarek's eyes when he'd asked why his son's living spirit had not been returned to him, nor the crushing sorrow when it seemed all had been lost. Jim had seen something of the same profound but suppressed sorrow on Spock's face once or twice before, and he vowed to wipe it from Sarek's if it was humanly possible.

Fortunately, it was.

Sarek peered intently into his son's face as if he would never tire of it. Jim sympathized with him. His eyes fixed on his old friend, standing firm and unwavering under his father's scrutiny. How long had it been since Jim had watched Spock die? The memory would not leave him, even now. The fact that Spock was alive and well and standing just a few meters away could not wash away the sight of him crumpled in the radiation chamber, his life rapidly fading from him. Jim closed his eyes against the memory.

He'd lost something of himself that day. Thank God he'd gotten it back.

Jim looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Having exchanged their goodbyes, father and son were moving in opposite directions across the chamber. Sarek exited toward the civilian area at the back of the chamber. Spock walked away from his father, looking very self-satisfied.

Jim stood still, watching him approach. It was a sight he'd never thought to see again, Spock back in uniform, memories intact, an old familiar sparkle in his eyes.

As he drew level with the end of the panel where Jim stood, Spock slowed wordlessly, favoring him with a look of quiet expectation. Jim smiled, pushed away from the panel and fell into step beside him, his weariness falling away.

The practiced rhythm was there instantly, the confidence and ease. Jim could not help but think back to their awkward stroll beside San Francisco Bay just a few days before, plagued as it had been by misunderstanding and hesitation, just as their conversation had been. That discomfort was gone now, replaced by the lightness of long familiarity, the comfort of being back where one belongs.

Their footsteps echoed through the chamber and out toward the Starfleet shuttle dock. Jim did not know precisely where they were headed. But as long as they went there side-by-side, he decided that he didn't much care.


	2. Mindfulness

Still Waters

**Mindfulness**

Seven long, strong strokes and a breath on the right side. Seven long strokes and a breath on the left. Arms slicing through the water, legs scissoring behind him, heart pounding against his ribs. Seven strokes, breathe. Seven strokes, breathe.

It was almost like meditation, this focused attention to breath and body. "Mindfulness," the ancient Buddhists had called it, and he was certainly mindful of his lungs expelling air with every stroke, of the cool liquid gliding over his skin and the smooth, powerful way his body moved through the water.

Seven strokes. Breathe.

Seven strokes. Breathe.

Meditative though the practice was, it was utterly unlike the form of meditation he had been taught as a youth, in which awareness of the body is purged in favor of pure thought. In this new, mindful state, he allowed every thought, every feeling, to wander through his consciousness without judgment. The looming personnel report surfaced in his mind and he acknowledged it and set it aside. The rush of moving water filled his ears and he listened carefully to it, then set it aside in favor of his focus, his mantra in the water.

Seven strokes.

Breathe.

This was an entirely physical meditation, different from any he had ever attempted as a younger man. Every muscle, every sinew worked together with lungs and heart and brain to propel him through the water. He permitted himself to feel every part of himself, to appreciate his body's discipline and strength. At the end of the pool he ducked his head and executed a quick flip turn. His feet hit the retaining wall and he uncurled his long legs, pushing off through a cloud of bubbles left in the wake of the turn. He glided, stretching, bubbles glancing off his skin, until his momentum slowed, then he found the rhythm again.

Seven strokes. Breathe.

Seven strokes. Breathe.

He had never expected to find himself here, swimming lap after lap in the ship's early morning hours. He had never been one to seek out forms of exercise in addition to the self-defense and general fitness his position demanded. Each year he passed his mandated physical with ease, weighing in at the low end of acceptable mass for his height and genetic makeup, but acceptable nevertheless. It had never occurred to him that he might someday want to supplement the required physical regimen with more exercise. It seemed even less likely that he would find greatest satisfaction by swimming in cool water.

But there was no denying that the did, in fact, enjoy the efficiency of this body, its natural rhythm in the water and the way it—he—responded to the hours spent in the pool.

After three months of regular training, he'd had to order different uniforms—broader in the chest and shoulders, narrower in the waist—to accommodate his changing physique.

It was one change among many. Change had become a constant in his life of these last six months. Previously, the unending changes would have disturbed his precarious equanimity. He would have withdrawn into himself for fear of outwardly betraying his loss of balance. Now, however, he could accept both the changes and the fears they engendered. They were a part of him too, no less than the thoughts whispering in his head, the muscles moving beneath his skin, the heart beating in his side.

This too was a change, this calm acceptance of his own emotional life.

_I change_, he thought, moving rhythmically through the cool water. _Is this not the essence of life? To adapt to new circumstances? To...evolve?_

If change was to be the way of his life, was it not logical to embrace it?

He held the thought up for examination, sensed the seed of enlightenment there, and set it aside.

Seven strokes. Breathe.

Seven strokes. Breathe.

The underwater speakers crackled to life. _"Kirk to Spock."_

He lowered his chin to his chest, sprinted the last dozen strokes to the wall and raised himself to the deck in one fluid motion, water rolling off him in waves. He ran a towel over his torso and thumbed the wall communicator.

"Spock here."

_"New orders coming in from Command. My office in twenty minutes."_

"Acknowledged. Spock out."

He stepped into the pool's refresher unit and stripped off his wet swim trunks. In ten minutes he was dry and dressed, every centimeter the model Starfleet officer, striding through the _Enterprise A's_ quietly bustling corridors. But the calm of the pool stayed with him as he moved mindfully, prepared to go where the day would take him.


	3. New Orders

Still Waters

**New Orders**

Captain's Log, stardate XXXX.X_: We have settled into standard orbit around T'el'ek, an M-class planet in the Cygnus system. After a lengthy shakedown cruise, all systems are performing at optimum, all personnel are in place and awaiting further assignments. This new _Enterprise A _is a fine ship, as noble as her predecessor. I look forward to putting her through her paces in service of the Federation._

_Captain's Personal Log: It's a fine ship. It's a fine crew. And damn, but we're bored. New orders coming in this morning, not a moment too soon._

Jim Kirk stared out his office's floor-to-ceiling port at the spinning blue-green planet below. It was an almost dizzying view, and one that he had not quite gotten used to even after six months.

Nor had he gotten used to having an office. On his first deep-space mission as Captain, he'd conducted all business from his quarters or the Bridge. Now he had a sizable office just off the Bridge, complete with antique walnut desk, high-backed chair, an assortment of racks, chairs and lounges for visitors of all sizes and shapes, and a floor-to-ceiling viewport that offered him a spectacular view of whatever lay ahead or below the ship.

At the moment, however, he had no eyes for the pretty planet T'el'ek. In fact, he was tired of pretty planets entirely, of ferrying supplies and colonists to them, of shuttling diplomats and bureaucrats between them, and of sending his crew down to them. He wanted to be out there somewhere, between the stars, confronting the unknown and testing himself and his crew against it. He'd been given an unexpected second chance—they all had—to do what they did best in the company of those they cherished most. Jim had vowed six months ago not to take this opportunity for granted, to make the most of every minute he had been given. But the opportunities so far had been few, and the minutes had stretched into days, weeks, months.

Jim gritted his teeth. _Six months of milk runs. We save the goddamned planet from itself, and we're rewarded with six months of milk runs. If Command still hasn't figured out that they can trust me, they can just—_

The door buzzer sounded. Jim turned gratefully away from the window, putting behind him the sight of the pretty planet and the ungracious thoughts it inspired. "Come."

Captain Spock stepped into the office, hands clasped behind his back. "Good morning, Jim," he said softly, and Jim suppressed a smile. Finally, after twenty years and twenty thousand entreaties, Spock had at long last embraced this smallest of human customs: referring to his closest friends by their names, not their ranks.

"Morning, Spock. Have a seat." Spock slid into his customary chair opposite the desk and crossed his hands in his lap. Jim glanced up at the sudden whiff of chlorine that had accompanied his friend into the room. "I'm sorry I interrupted your swim."

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow at him, his lips turning up in a very faint smile. "I presume you are...anxious...to learn the contents of our new orders and prefer not to wait until my usual shift begins."

"Damn straight." Jim sat heavily in his desk chair and turned to the console behind him. The data wafer Uhura had hand-delivered to him fifteen minutes earlier was already in the player waiting to be viewed. "'Anxious' doesn't even begin to cover it," he muttered, and thumbed the viewscreen to life.

After the obligatory retinal scan and the display of the Starfleet logo, Admiral Stark's lined face appeared. _"Captain Kirk. I trust this communique finds you and your ship well. Starfleet Command has __been watching your progress very closely. We're pleased with the performance of your ship and crew, Captain. Very pleased."_

Kirk turned and grinned at Spock, who raised an eyebrow in return.

Stark paused, then shook his head slightly, smiling. _"We're pleased, but I bet you are bored out of your mind, Jim. You're thinking that if you get another milk run, you might have to do something drastic."_

Kirk gasped. Stark had always been too insightful for his tastes. The man had spent most of his career in deep space; he knew what these months of inactivity meant to a crew like _Enterprise's_ crew. Worse, he knew that Jim knew it, too.

_"Don't be too hard on yourself, Jim. Your time will come."_ The Admiral picked up a data padd and began to read from it, all business now, the bantering tone gone. _"Captain Kirk, you are to take your ship and crew to Mondan, the third planet in the Reladin system, where you will rendezvous with the _U.S.S. Cousteau_. You will offer any and all assistance to the _Cousteau_'s engineering crew as they effect repairs from their recent encounter with Orion...traders. Please proceed at all possible speed..."_

Kirk sat back and let out an explosive breath. "A milk run. Another goddamned milk run!"

"Jim..."

The data wafer continued to play. Jim was dimly aware of Stark's voice droning out mission parameters and timelines, but he had no stomach for the mundane details of this most mundane of missions. Consumed by a need to move, he rocketed out of his chair and began to pace the length of the office. "Why do they keep doing this to us, Spock? Stark said they were pleased. So why don't we get a real mission? Why all these glorified clerical errands?"

"Because they are necessary."

The Vulcan's calm, reasoned response, usually so welcome, grated on his nerves. "I know that, but this is the _Enterprise_, damn it!"

"As you are well aware, the _Enterprise_ may be Starfleet's newest ship, but she is no longer the flagship. _Excelsior_ is better equipped for deep space exploration."

"But _Excelsior's_ crew isn't, and you know it, Spock."

Spock cocked his head to one side, considering. "I am aware that this crew is the more experienced, and am also...puzzled by the relative low profile of our recent assignments. However, Admiral Stark did say that 'Your time will come.'"

Kirk stopped pacing and stared down at him. "Meaning?"

Spock shoulder twitched, his version of a casual shrug. "I can only speculate."

Kirk waved his hand dismissively. "Speculate, then."

"It is possible that Admiral Stark is already aware of our next assignment. Perhaps this is the last 'clerical errand' before we are sent back to deep space."

Turning to stare again out the window, Kirk rubbed his chin. "Doesn't the Reladin system have a Starbase?"

Spock nodded. "Indeed. Deep Space Five is one of the last near-Earth outposts in the sector."

"You think we might be sent there after taking care of _Cousteau's_ problems?"

"DS5 would be a logical place from which to begin a long-term mission."

Jim tapped his knuckles on the viewport. "How soon can we be underway?"

"Immediately, if you wish it."

"Time to Relad orbit, warp 8?"

"Sixteen hours, nine minutes, seventeen seconds. From your mark, of course." Reflected in the viewport, Spock rose smoothly and bounced slightly on his toes. If he hadn't known better, Jim would have sworn Spock was as anxious to be underway as he was himself. "May I ask a question, Jim?"

Surprised, Kirk turned to look at his old friend. "Of course."

"Was not the _Cousteau_ the ship to which Dr. Gillian Taylor was assigned some six months ago?"

Jim broke into a broad grin. "I think you're right, Spock. I would ask if you're thinking what I'm thinking, but I bet I already know."

Spock cocked an eyebrow at him, a smile hovering in his eyes. "I am thinking that perhaps the Captain would like to host Dr. Taylor and the _Enterprise_ and _Cousteau_ senior staffs for dinner. Those who are not needed for the repair effort, of course," he amended.

"Of course." Spock was probably right. This was probably just a layover before the real mission began. A thought occurred to him. "Does the system have shore leave facilities, Spock?"

"It does."

"I trust you will see to it, Mr. Spock?"

"Indeed, Captain."

Jim placed a hand on the taller man's shoulder and steered him toward the sliding door. "I think things are looking up, old friend, don't you?"

"Indubitably."

They stepped out onto the Bridge together, Kirk already barking orders, the pretty planet left far behind them.


End file.
